


The Billionaire's Price

by withcoffeespoons



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Assistant Darcy Lewis, Awesome Pepper Potts, Bisexual Male Character, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Harlequin, M/M, MCU Harlequin Challenge, Panic Attacks, Protective Rhodey, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-13 01:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2131545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withcoffeespoons/pseuds/withcoffeespoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year, Stark Industries selects a public science educator to honor with public appearances, access to SI labs, and of course the chance to work with Tony Stark himself.</p><p>This year, Tony wants Bruce Banner, a semi-retired physicist, pacifist, and humanitarian, and he's not taking no for an answer.</p><p>When the media makes a wild assumption about the nature of Banner's relationship with Stark, the improvement it makes on Stark's public image outweighs the lie, but truth isn't far behind fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Opposite of Saving Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the [MCU Harlequin Challenge](http://mcuharlequin.tumblr.com/).
> 
> One missed deadline and some critical editing later...

Pepper's office was a strange combination of the cold corporate environment to which she had become accustomed as CEO, and the florid expression of self that accompanied everything Stark. Tony liked to say that it was a perfect balance of stark and Stark. Then again, Tony had no idea what he was talking about.

 Despite this, Tony was never comfortable in her office. He struggled to sprawl in the chair opposite hers, fought to focus, like the uncluttered room proved more of a distraction to him than any number of tchotchkes could.

 Pepper thought privately that it had more to do with what that room represented—control over the Stark Industries empire, the legacy he imagined he could never live up to.

 "Tony, it's time—"

 "No."

 "Tony."

 "No." Tony Stark was a petulant child in the worst way, Pepper had long ago realized. The problem was that he was technically her boss, while she was, de facto, his. Not that she ever had to remind him; he was the one constantly reminding her. "Without you there is no Stark Industries, and as such, I think it's only logical to leave these important kinds of decisions to—"

 "Mister Stark." Pepper never yelled at Tony. Well, she had once, and she was pretty sure she saw his tail between his legs. The thing was she never _needed_ to yell at him. There was a _tone_ , one she could never summon up at will, but which Tony himself demanded.

 It stopped Tony cold every time.

 "You know I’ve given you more concessions than any sane person would—"

 "And for that I am eternally—"

 Pepper needed only to hold a single finger in the air to stem Tony’s ramble. "I don’t make you attend meetings because, in the long run, it’s less work for me if you don’t open your mouth." She sighed, rising to her feet, and picked out three folders of varying colors from her desk.

 Her heels clicked as she walked, and over that satisfying sound, she heard Tony struggle with the chair. When she was certain he was behind her, she turned, trying to maintain her stern expression as Tony stumbled to a halt. "I need you at the Selection Committee meeting," she said.

 "Come on, Pepper," Tony wheedled. Pepper turned again, Tony following her to the elevator. "Just give me your top ten and I’ll veto the candidates and you’ll argue on behalf of the committee—you and I both know how this song plays out."

 The hallway seemed longer with Tony’s rapidfire soliloquy following her. "I think I liked you better when you were hungover in bed until 2 in the afternoon."

 "I’m going to ignore that," Tony said, not offended in the least. Pepper liked that about him; he accepted his past like he accepted most things—with a determination of its usefulness.

 Stark Tower might have been a pinnacle of technology, but the elevator still took what felt like days to travel 40 floors.

 "Admit it," Tony said, "involving me with the committee’s choices does the opposite of save time."

 "You’re right," Pepper intoned. The elevator chimed, and Pepper had to swallow back her smile as Tony followed at her heels. "And if you’d read the memo I sent you this morning, you would know that the Selection Committee has already done exactly that and is awaiting your decision."

 Tony stared at her as the doors slid shut, mouth slightly agape. "I could kiss you."

 She smiled. "Maybe later." 

* * *

 "No. No. No. Really no," he rattled off as he flicked through the displayed profiles. "Is this woman even a _science_ teacher?"

 "Political science," Pepper said dangerously.

 "Uh, yeah, gonna have to go with no. Uh, convicted felon—that’s a no, by the way." Tony stopped abruptly, pausing for a minute in reflection. "All these candidates are women," he observed.

 The committee chairman, a bristled old man, 70 if he was a day, replied, "Given the public nature of the events and—"

 "You thought I would look better with some arm candy than a more deserving candidate."

"We gave serious thought to the need for more visible women in STEM fields," the chairman said with an offended cough.

Tony sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Okay, I’m all in favor of more Jane Fosters out there running the world, but—" he gestured skeptically to the selection. "None of these women are it. You’ve picked out…eye candy, not—" He turned to Pepper. "Give me the real top ten."

Pepper smiled. Tony could always count on her to have done the real homework. He hadn’t made her CEO for nothing. She gestured and the committee’s files scattered, replaced by ten more, only one of whom carried over between the two groups.

"Better," Tony hummed, nodding approvingly at the selections. "Oh, she could be good," he remarked. "Now this may actually be a competition."

Every year, excepting extraordinary circumstances, Stark Industries selected a public educator in the sciences to honor for his or her accomplishments. There were usually public appearances, private access to SI labs, the whole nine yards. The selection process was non-exclusionary and required weeks of research and background checks, which was why Pepper had earned Tony’s proclaimed unending gratitude on this project.

Tony flipped through the profiles, occasionally pausing when he saw something exceptional. Pepper’s selections were all exceptional, of course, and far more balanced than the committee’s.

"Whoa," he breathed, scattering all but one file. "Game over."

"Mr. Stark," the chairman began, raising his hand slightly to object, "Dr. Banner was previously dismissed due to ah, political and judicial differences?"

Tony grinned. "I want him. You asked for my pick and I have executive decision." Tony flicked his wrist as he crossed his arms, enlarging the photo on file.

"Tell Dr. Bruce Banner to wear his best tie. I bet he looks good in a suit."


	2. No Impulse Control

Bruce’s best tie, it turned out, was a burgundy bow tie that would have looked perfect on Indiana Jones in the 1930s. On Bruce, in the 21 st century, it looked—well, he _was_ , technically, a schoolteacher.

His suit jacket was a faded gray-brown, too tight across the shoulders, and wrinkled on the sleeves and where his lower back pressed into the chair in the lobby of Stark Tower. It was the most comfortable seat he’d had the pleasure of waiting—he checked his watch—40 minutes in.

He ran a hand through his curls, only catching himself in the action when his knuckle snagged on the product he’d glommed on. Bruce Banner was never a man of conscientious grooming. Personal appearance was typically of little consequence to his day to day affairs, but a meeting with Tony Stark—that didn’t happen every day.

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket for his reading glasses, wishing not for the first time that he had brought his latest journals. Instead, he toyed with the stem, testing springs he knew inside and out, springs he knew were on their last legs, and that might not hold up to such manipulation. He needed something to touch.

He heard Mr. Stark’s receptionist from the moment she stepped out of the elevator, her pumps filling the great silence of the lobby. He thought, perhaps, that her name was Marcie; she had spoken to him exactly twice—first when he had called from the airport to arrange his travel through the city, then again when she said she would inform Mr. Stark of his arrival.

She struck him as a little odd, just slightly out of place. She wore designer jeans instead of the pencil skirts popular culture and Tony Stark’s reputation fed him to expect, along with layers of accessories that the weather couldn’t hope to require in June. She spoke in frank tones, seductively rude even as her words were bland, the coached representation of Stark industries.

"Dr. Banner, please come with me."

Bruce pocketed his glasses. The chair squeaked as he stood—not an aged groan, but the vinyl whimper of unused seating. The tower was still new, smelling of paint and drywall dust. The air was fresh, but polished, too clean to be stale, too clean to be fresh New York City air.

Bruce tucked into a corner of the elevator, the receptionist taking up a comfortable space, someone who was familiar, who was at home in this building. She swayed and nodded to the beat of the tinny metal music trickling through the overhead speaker.

Eventually the elevator stopped, somewhere higher up than Bruce had been in years. The receptionist turned to him, walking almost backwards as she led him down the hall.

"Okay, so Mr. Stark can be a little…unsettling to some people." Bruce almost laughed; he was getting the eccentric genius talk. "I know," she said wryly, reading his thoughts on his expression, "just trust me on this one." She turned a corner, managing to clip her elbow on the wall with a loud _ow!_ Rubbing her arm, she continued, "I don’t get paid to say this—actually, I think I get paid _not_ to say this—but in my experience, despite everything you may have heard, Tony Stark is only ever _really_ interested in one thing."

Bruce’s gaze rose slowly in sudden horror. He wasn’t sure what he was going to see on this woman’s face.

To his surprise, it was a grin. "Science," she finished.

She rapped on the door twice and opened it without waiting for a response. Bruce trailed in after her.

"Darcy!" Tony bellowed. "You look ravishing," he said, despite not once looking up. He was bent over the edge of his desk, one elbow on the surface, as he held a soldering iron in his other hand. "Give me the good news."

Tony’s office was—Bruce wasn’t sure it even _was_ an office.

There was a bar.

There were also about a dozen half-abandoned projects placed throughout the room in what appeared to be a system that defied labeling and possibly comprehension—a whiteboard in the corner covered in equations, fragments of some sort of robotic device on his desk, at least three digital displays idling on the walls, and something Bruce couldn’t even guess at entangled in a tropical fern under the window. He felt hopelessly out of his depth.

"The good news," Darcy—Darcy, of course, yes, that was her name—clapped her hands together, "is Dr. Bruce Banner." She seemed to anticipate the long pause of confusion because she only paused for a beat before elaborating, "Your selection for the—"

"Yes, Dr. Banner!" Tony said, straightening. He stepped forward, leaving the soldering iron smoking on the desk. He reached out a hand, gripping Bruce’s in a comfortable, almost familiar handshake.

Bruce knew Tony Stark. He’d never met him before this moment, but everyone knew Tony Stark, whether they were a scientist or not. The difference was that most people didn’t care _how_ he’d earned his billions, only that he was rich.

Bruce cared. Bruce had been following the developments of Stark Industries for years.

Stark looked the part, all expensive suits and sharp grooming and flashy sunglasses. He turned to Bruce with a smile so falsely bright, Bruce expected to see the SI logo etched into the veneer. It was all charm and no substance and Bruce hated it on sight.

"Can I get you a drink?" Stark asked, already reaching for the tumblers.

"Ah, no, Mr. Stark; it’s hardly even noon." It was easy to fall back on old excuses. He felt his breathing slow, focused and even, and he had to pocket his hand to hide the tremor, the twitch of his fingers.

"Just one?" Stark said, like it was ever that easy.

"No. Thank you," Bruce said coldly.

"No problem." Tony shrugged and continued to pour his own drink. From what Bruce had known about Stark—and it was pretty public knowledge—there was little that came between the man and his drink. "Darcy, fetch Dr. Banner a glass of our best water."

Darcy’s eyes flicked to the ceiling in a half-hearted eyeroll. "Gladly," she forced, "but I am not a cocker spaniel, Mr. Stark," she added as her heels clicked, her back to the room. "I do not fetch."

Tony straightened, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. "I’ve read your file, Dr. Banner. I’m _very_ impressed."

Bruce twitched at the rush of pride he felt, the twitch of anger at his desperate satisfaction at Stark’s approval. "Thank you," he said, "but Mr. Stark—"

"No, seriously," he insisted, lowering his glass with a harsh clunk. "Your credentials are solid, your research is, quite frankly, unparalleled." Tony paused, leaning forward, palms flat on his desk, almost predatory. "What the _hell_ are you doing in Cambodia?"

Bruce struggled to work his jaw. "Building schools. Establishing safe communities. _Helping_ people, which, quite frankly Mr. Stark, I’d rather be doing than standing here today."

Stark nodded, pushing off the surface of the desk, sliding back into his chair. "I know," he said. "You turned down our first offer. Pepper was devastated. So tell me, Dr. Banner," he said, bouncing back out of the chair, his movements too measured to be restless, but nevertheless unpredictable, "why are you here today?"

Bruce’s jaw nearly clicked under the strain of holding back the words that came to mind. "Why am I here? I’m here because I can’t stomach the thought of half-million dollars being put into some high-tech, chrome-plated laboratory in Anaheim when it could help my kids in Cambodia."

Tony stopped a foot away. There was an odd smile on his lips, satisfied, somehow, with Bruce’s answer. He turned his head abruptly, addressing Darcy’s approaching footsteps. "I told you he’d be good, didn’t I?"

Bruce didn’t see Darcy’s reaction, keeping his eyes on Tony. "You should know upfront that you’re making a pretty big mistake bringing me on."

"I don’t think so."

"My file," Bruce began, pointing to the display on Tony’s desk. "Does that contain criminal history, my—my arrest record?"

"Bruce, I know the name of your pet dog when you were seven."

"I never had a dog."

"It’s a figure of speech."

"No it’s not."

"It should be."

Bruce sighed. "My point is, Mr. Stark, I have been arrested on six separate occasions. Four of them—"

"Protesting Stark Industries, yes, I know. You were protesting our weapons manufacturing division, correct me if I’m wrong—which I’m not." Something flickered in Tony’s eyes. "You were protesting the—the Merchant of Death."

Bruce laughed, the sound crackling in the space between the two men. "Yeah, that works."

"Dr. Banner, you really have been away for a while," Tony remarked. "Stark Industries stopped weapons production over a year ago." He grinned, not giving Bruce a chance to reply. "Brucey baby, you are exactly what I want."

 

* * *

 

"He is good," Darcy said.

"I know."

"He’s cute."

Tony paused. "I know."

"Knew it."

Tony jabbed a finger at her. "Stop."

"Hey man," Darcy said, raising both hands in surrender, "I know what’s in my contract. I’m not going to get myself fired from Stark Industries—not over gossip, at least." She tugged at her shirt. "Not like it’s news anyway."

"Treading," Tony warned. Pepper had a saying when she was training Darcy—"You’re treading on thin ice." It was a phrase saved for the times Darcy had trouble discerning the difference between Mr. Stark, her boss, and Tony, the man she was occasionally called upon to babysit.

"Puh-lease, like your dalliances have never graced the pages of People Magazine? Let alone Pornhub?" Darcy moved to Tony’s desk and began doing something complicated with its scattering of papers and at least three different colors of folders. Darcy’s filing system defied logic. "I’m just saying, all it takes to figure out you’re a veritable pendulum of sexuality is two brain cells and an internet connection."

Looking up, she wasn’t sure if Tony looked uncomfortable or impressed; with an ego the size of his, there was a fine line. "You’re saying—"

"No one’s going to be surprised." She shrugged. "Might want to avoid it with Dr. Banner. I know this is hard for you, but you’ve got to think about other people."

"Oh, now you’re definitely treading." Pepper’s voice had a hint of laughter in it, but there was no denying the steel.

Darcy straightened up, clutching the stack of folders to her chest. "Miss Potts."

"Why don’t you go grab us some coffee and Dr. Banner’s paperwork," she said. Pepper Potts had the enviable talent for making orders sound an awful lot like suggestions.

 

* * *

  

"What," Tony remarked, "you don’t get the ‘ _I don’t fetch_ ’ speech?"

"It helps when you don’t use phrases associated with pets." Pepper rounded on Tony as soon as the doors clicked shut behind Darcy, wearing a smile that could only be described as proud. "She’s right, you know."

"About Dr. Banner’s virtue?" Tony lifted a tiny robotic mechanism from his desk and distractedly worked its movements with his fingers. There was a slight tremor in his hands, buried underneath the veneer of hyperfocus, a tell that Pepper had taken long strides to learn; tinkering was Tony’s coping mechanism. She took a few long strides to bring him the eyeglass screwdriver. She didn’t miss his grateful smile.

"About his reputation in the scientific community," she said pointedly. "You make one move on him and he becomes _The Guy Who Slept with Tony Stark_. Forget his work on gamma radiation, forgot his paper on anti-electron collisions. Hell, forget the humanitarian work in Cambodia! Suddenly he’s just one more thing you’ve stuck your penis in."

"Your assumptions about my sexual preferences—"

"Are irrelevant, Tony!"

He put the screwdriver down, meeting Pepper’s eyes. "I get it! No touchy." He replaced the tuned mechanism with a set of pliers and began tossing them from one hand to the other. "It’s like you think I have _no_ impulse control."

Pepper snatched the tool out of its midair arc. "You don’t."

 

* * *

  

Bruce walked away from Tony’s office in a bit of a daze. He had gone in there wanting to say no. Wanting to tell Stark where he could stick his $500,000, hitch a flight back to Cambodia, and keep doing what he was good at—anonymity.

But there was something to Stark’s promise of change. Maybe Bruce had been away from it for too long. He left the States to put some good back into the world; maybe this was his chance to amplify that, to make a difference.

So he went downstairs, just like Miss Potts had asked, and waited for Darcy to come along with some undoubtedly necessary and incredibly tedious paperwork.

Bruce paced around the lobby for several minutes, poring over his conversation with Tony in his mind. Maybe he had changed his mind, decided that Bruce’s record wasn’t worth his time. Maybe he was still trying ardently to convince Miss Potts that this was a good idea. Maybe—

Darcy rushed off the elevator. "Oh thank god, you’re still here!" she said, somewhat breathless. Bruce was a little intimidated by the size of the stack in her arms. "I mean, I just thought, y’know, thanks for waiting.

"I just needed to finalize some things with Miss Potts." She tugged out one enormous folder. "These are yours. Policies, agreements, contracts, things Miss Potts assures me are legally required, plus a few that, uh, working with Tony makes a pretty good idea."

"What, like intellectual rights?"

Darcy cleared her throat, though she spoke lowly. "More like personal injury liability—look," she added, brighter, "you’ll meet with Miss Potts tomorrow morning to go over this. You have the night to look over the details."

Bruce’s head popped up sharply. "The night?" He took the folder with a sardonic smile. "Good, I was worried I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep."


	3. Zeppelin is Loose

"Do you have any questions?"

Bruce had a lot of questions. He and Miss Potts had gone over more paperwork than he could keep track of, but the constant question on his mind was "why?" That subject had been exhausted with a sigh and "because Tony wants you," and that was apparently good enough for Pepper Potts.

"This has all been very thorough on the subject of the, uh, details, Miss Potts, but what is this whole thing going to look like?"

She leaned back in her chair, the expensive leather not making a single whine. The window at her back gave Bruce the fleeting image of a queen overlooking her kingdom. "It’s an opportunity to pair your mind with Tony’s on projects of your choosing."

Bruce shook his head, holding up an objecting hand. "I’ve been given the sales pitch. I signed your papers, I’m buying." That fact did still throw him for a loop. "What does this all mean?" he asked, tapping at the contracts, perhaps with more force than necessary.

Pepper sighed and folded her hands together on the desk. "It means photo ops, Dr. Banner. It means press and publicity—for Tony, for Stark Industries, but also for you, for your research, your work, and your causes. That is what this," she flipped the folder closed, "means for you. It means you speak for Stark Industries now, until the end of your 60 days with us, barring your dismissal at the discretion of myself and the board, so do try not to piss me off." She considered her words. "At least not any more than Tony does on a daily basis.

"It also means, pending Tony’s approval—which is nearly guaranteed—unfettered access to the labs and resources here at Stark Tower."

Bruce fidgeted with the corner of one of the manila folders on Miss Potts’ desk. "You’ve all put a lot of—of blind faith in me."

For the first time since Bruce had met her, he saw a flash of raw, uncalculated emotion cross her face. "Bruce, our faith in you is anything but blind."

* * *

Tony was nearly to the elevator when Bruce found him, the two men nearly colliding in front of its sliding doors.

"I’ve gotten lost twice," Bruce said after muttering apologies. "Is it Darcy’s day off?"

"Darcy doesn’t get days off," Tony said, tugging Bruce back into the elevator. With a glance at the ceiling, he tucked himself into the corner. "Camera blindspot. In terms of security, probably something we should look into, but that’s what I’ve got JARVIS for.

"Anyway it makes escaping meetings for sushi a little easier," he added with no further explanation.

"And you’re making me your accomplice?"

"Partners in crime."

"You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?" The words were out of his mouth before he could even think about them.

Tony turned sharply, staring at him. He was different than he’d been the day before. There were no reflective aviators to hide behind, no fancy suit, only a ratty pair of jeans and a threadbare Zeppelin t-shirt. He could almost pass for average.

But there was something else, too, something manic and flitting in his eyes, even as his shock at Bruce’s blow faded into comprehension. When he spoke, his words were evenly measured, "I had perfectly legal contracts with the US Government. I really don’t know how many times I have to—"

Bruce shook his head. "You can’t really be naive enough to believe that every shipment got where it was meant to. That everything was in the right hands. War isn’t that tidy."

Tony tensed, his whole body pulled tight, trapped against the elevator walls. "I’m really not okay with this conversation," he said, licking his lips nervously.

His words only served to further incense Bruce; the next thing out of his mouth was, "Really? Tell that to the people still dying with the words ‘Stark Industries’ as the last thing they see, plastered on the side of a missile launcher. Tell that to the women and children who were murdered—"

Tony paled. He smacked his hand against the button panel. The doors opened, and he bolted out of the cab, leaving Bruce thin-lipped and hot-faced in the elevator, his pulse pounding.

* * *

The doors closed, and the elevator went back up, Bruce frozen in place, so sure he’d ruined everything. Any chance at the money, at the publicity, at the opportunity of a lifetime, working in the kind of facility Stark Industries had to offer.

When the doors opened again, Darcy stepped in, looking furious. Bruce instinctively took a step back, tense, expecting to be the target of her wrath, but "Where’s Tony?" she snapped.

"I…don’t know."

Darcy did an impressive show of pacing in a space no larger than five feet across. "I’m going to kill him. This is the fourth budget meeting he’s bailed on this month."

"This month?" Darcy nodded. "It’s only the 9th."

"We keep trying to reschedule the same meeting over and over hoping we can get a little more done every time."

"I’m confused, isn’t that kind of thing why Tony appointed Miss Potts CEO?" Bruce had been catching up—trying, at least; it wasn’t easy when reliable news sources read like tabloids in the life of Tony Stark.

Darcy squirmed, unable or unwilling to comment.

"Sorry, look, Tony was—I did run into him, he was going to take me with him to lunch."

"You said no?" Darcy said skeptically.

Bruce rubbed at the back of his neck, his shirt collar feeling suddenly too tight. "I kinda pissed him off."

Darcy laughed. "You? What did you say, Doc?" She stepped out of the elevator and picked up her usual brisk pace. Bruce stumbled to keep up. "Did you say his jokes aren’t funny? Because they’re really not, and he needs to learn that."

"I—weapons production."

Darcy halted mid-step.

"I may have…indirectly accused him of, uh. Complicity in the murder of children." When he said it like that, it sounded a lot worse.

"Christ, Banner." Darcy turned pale, her face hollow. "You really are out of touch if you think you can say that to Tony Stark." There was a darkness to her voice that came unexpected.

"What, just because he stopped making guns?" Bruce asked skeptically. "One step in the right direction does not negate the decades of—and anyway, it’s nothing that hasn’t been thrown around at demonstrations for years."

"But you said it to his face. Jesus," she hissed, flicking her attention back around to Bruce, "were you still in the elevator?"

Bruce’s guilt must have shown on his face. Darcy swore under her breath and pulled out her phone.

"Miss Potts, Zeppelin is loose—and volatile." She covered the mouthpiece with her fingers, directing her question to Bruce, "Which way did he go?"

Bruce gaped, still uncomprehending. "Out the front door, I guess? He was talking to me about sushi."

"Tazawa’s." She nodded into the phone, too focused to notice its futility. "I’ll address Banner," she said before ending the call.

"Look," Bruce sighed, "I screwed up, just, please tell me what’s going on before you dismiss me, that’s all I ask."

"That’s not my decision," Darcy said, tight-lipped, "but you need to know where you royally fucked up, and I cannot believe this wasn’t in the orientation paperwork." She took a steadying breath. "Come with me to my office, we should sit down for this."

Darcy’s office was little more than a closet with a desk and two chairs off one side of the lobby. There were different colored post-its everywhere and more piles of papers than Bruce could count. He folded himself into the chair, carefully avoiding further chaos.

"I guess you weren’t kidding about the news cycle in Cambodia, Doc," she said, pulling herself up onto her desk gingerly. She took a slow, solemn breath. "A year ago, Tony was captured. And tortured. By terrorists, after an ambush left him pretty bad off. The—the rest is really his story to tell, but the weapons the terrorists used, they—"

"Oh god," Bruce realized. "They were Stark weapons."

"Yeah," Darcy breathed. "Bruce," she said sharply, though there was sympathy there, too, driving out the images Bruce’s imagination conjured (captured and tortured), "I told you the rest is his to tell, but it isn’t public—the capture and rescue, sure, but no details, none of the…aftermath. You’ve been out there, you’ve seen—"

"I’ve seen a little boy pull a live grenade out of a lake," he said tersely, his knuckles tightening on the arms of the chair. "I’ve seen ‘peacekeeping forces’ with M-64 rifles attack a mother of four. I’ve seen families starve because the people with the guns take their food."

Darcy nodded, looking a little sick even as she acknowledged darkly what Bruce had experienced, but he wasn’t done yet.

"Who answers for their deaths?"

There was a pregnant pause before Darcy reached out her hand to Bruce’s knee. "How about the guys with the guns?" she suggested gently.

She hopped off the desk, her heels crashing into the floor. "He’s trying," she said. "Are you really going to ask him to shoulder all that guilt? ‘Cause right now, the way he’s been lately…I think he would."

Bruce nodded numbly. He stared at his own hands, feeling Darcy retreat. Her phone buzzed, and she made no sound as she answered it, replying only with a sigh and "thank god."

"Miss Potts found him," she explained, an edge to her words. "He’s fine, but I’d…take the rest of the day." Bruce listed forward, his forehead resting in his hands. "Your room is on the 53rd."


	4. From the Ground Up

Bruce took the day—and some extra. After two days and a migraine, tired of being caught with information that was years out of date, he had spent hours reading up on his new colleague. MIT-educated, which he knew. Inherited the business from his father, which he knew. Had a taste for sex, drugs, and gambling—which everybody knew.

The mass news outlets covered his capture and rescue, just like Darcy said. The finance pages covered the devastating hit Stark Industries took on the market after Tony’s change of direction, along with countless Opinion editorials criticizing and lauding him in turn. But the aftermath became the subject for tabloids, the headlines for which ran the gamut from the truly ridiculous "Stark’s Secret Terrorist Life" to "Tony Stark Dying from Fatal Injury" and various other speculations on his physical and mental health.

The subject of Tony’s health was explored most extensively. As far as Bruce could tell, there had never been any proof produced, no official statements, just denials and ‘no comment’s. It wasn’t enough to convince him that Tony Stark was dying, but neither did it tell him that nothing was wrong.

Knowing what he did of Stark just in the days since he’d met him, however, Bruce wondered how they could expect people to believe those stories. Tony was a whirlwind; Bruce wondered if he ever slept. Bruce had been through lab euphoria back in the day—the self-imposed deadlines, the ‘I’ll sleep after one more’ whether that was a data point or another test. Tony’s restlessness was different, though, habitual, a personality trait.

Or a symptom.

Bruce answered automatically to the knock on his door. He wasn’t expecting Tony himself.

"Good boy," Tony said, smiling tightly at the display of articles. Bruce swiped at the air, and the pages minimized to the side of the display. "You did your homework."

"You look better," Bruce observed. The suit was absent again, and Bruce wondered if he only ever wore it for first impressions; today he wore a tight Black Sabbath shirt, its sleeves hugging the curves of his biceps like they were painted on his skin. His jeans might have been designer label quality once, but the grease stains that littered the fabric, bunched at the thighs and hips, were all Tony.

"Most people would say sorry."

Something about Tony made Bruce very brave. "I’m not sorry for what I said," he admitted. "But I am sorry for how I said it."

A dark flash of intensity crossed Tony’s expression as he studied Bruce. He had this penetrating stare that made Bruce feel like a particularly uncooperative laboratory specimen. The shadow was gone from Tony’s eyes, replaced with something sharp—maybe dangerous. "Come with me."

"Excuse me?"

"I said come with me." He didn’t wait for Bruce to rise from his chair before turning, his strides an even pace.

Bruce hurried after him. "Where are we going?"

"If you call that monstrosity with the bow tie your best suit, we are going shopping." He paused and turned on Bruce. "That came out a little less heterosexual than I was aiming for."

"I, uh, don’t know what misconceptions you’re having about my income, but—"

"Are you kidding? This is one of the fun parts," Tony said, grinning. "New suit, my treat. I am not letting you get photographed looking shabby."

Bruce felt suddenly self-conscious, tugging at the sleeves of his linen shirt. He’d never been too concerned with his personal style, but then he’d never been facing the kind of public exposure working with Tony Stark invited.

Tony must have noticed. He rolled his eyes. "You look fine, now come on."

* * *

The car was impressive. Bruce had expected a hired car, maybe even a limo. He was not expecting one of Tony’s engines, something flashy, hot-rod red, the top down. Moreover, he had not been expecting Tony behind the wheel.

"Get in." Tony said with a flare of irritation at Bruce’s hesitation. He couldn’t see his eyes past the aviators Tony had pulled on, but he heavily suspected he was rolling his eyes at him.

The wind had already begun to have its way with Tony’s hair, leaving him rumpled, but the effect was anything but frumpy. He looked better-suited for the beach than New York City. The air was warm enough, a slight breeze chasing through the streets.

Bruce had ridden in a convertible before, but never something so ostentatious, and never as recklessly as Tony drove. There was an odd sense of peacefulness in their silence, filled by a rumbling engine. Bruce’s thoughts stirred in a nervous energy, but Tony’s relaxed grin was a balm to the worries in Bruce’s mind.

He didn’t even realize how strongly he was telegraphing his discomfort until Tony’s hand fell on his knee, patting gently, squeezing as though to punctuate. "Relax," he said over the wind. "This is the fun part," he said again.

* * *

Bruce wondered, from the second he stepped into the shop, if he would ever stop feeling so out of his depth in Tony’s presence. Tony slapped his hand away whenever he twitched toward a price tag, unable to fight the habit of a lifetime.

Tony followed him around like an overexcited puppy, rocking back on his heels, grinning, every time Bruce paused to touch the collar to a suit jacket, or to test its shade against his skin tone. To his credit, he hardly said a word, as though there was something sacred about Bruce’s browsing. He almost would have preferred Tony talk to him, anything to dismiss the feeling that he was imposing on something sacred.

"Wait," Tony said to Bruce, holding his shoulder as he tried to step away, his fingers running down the sleeves of a soft gray suit. "George! Can we get this in a—what are you, 38? Never mind. George! Get your tape, I want this suit to be perfect for the good Doctor."

George was an older man, but springy. Tony assured him that he had been working for his family for decades, had designed suits for Howard Stark (except Tony said "Dad" like the admission burned). "He’s the most trusted man with a pair of scissors," Tony said.

Bruce had been so sure that the image of awkwardly-positioned measurements was complete fiction, but no one had felt it important to inform George. "You’re enjoying this," Bruce observed, staring at Tony’s grin with a small amount of discontent.

"Oh, immensely."

Bruce flapped his arms helplessly. "What is all this for, anyway?"

"Hm?" Tony asked absently, shaking himself. "Oh, movie premiere."

"What movie?"

Tony’s idly tapping fingers came to a pause. "I wasn’t paying attention," he said, as though realizing it for the first time. "No idea."

"That’s the kind of thing you do, though? Movie premieres?" Bruce struggled to keep eye contact as George buzzed around him.

"The company funds various start-ups, finances special interest movies, benefits. Sci-fi, superheroes, I don’t know, there’s a committee."

"Is there really," he asked as George took his measuring tape into the other room, "or is that just what you say when you don’t know?"

"Both, usually."

Bruce laughed. "Yeah, okay."

Tony seemed to light up. "Y’know, I think that was the first real laugh I’ve heard from you." He sounded absolutely gleeful.

"Side effect of constantly having my foot in my mouth," Bruce admitted ruefully.

"Try being me." The words flew out of Tony’s mouth, but he didn’t seem to regret them. His face turned serious, a sour shade, before he swept it under. "Actually don’t. I don’t know if the world is ready for two of me. Better safe than sorry."

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, but George walked back in with a swatch of fabric and the bill, and Tony grabbed the distraction like a lifeline. He and George agreed on a delivery time, and Bruce tried to feel less like a mannequin.

* * *

"Are you an engineer?" Tony asked at a red light, racing the chill of the setting sun back to the tower.

Bruce’s head tilted in surprise. "You’ve read—"

"I know what I’ve read," Tony said easily. "I want to know what you say. How do you look at yourself, Dr. Banner? What are you?"

Bruce flushed under the casual intimacy with which Tony spoke. He stared down at his lap, taking the time to consider. There were many answers to Tony’s question. Bruce was a physicist, but that wasn’t the right answer. "I’m a—a geneticist. A doctor," he answered, finally.

Tony nodded, his lips pulled thoughtfully tight. "Similar enough," he said lightly. "The human body," he argued, "the human _genome_ , is little more than a severely complex machine."

"No, no, no, the human body is a complexity of systems that cannot possibly be boiled down to simple commands. You are more than the sum of your parts—the parts interlace in so many intricate ways…genetics is only the starting point.

"I’m pretty good at taking things apart. Not…so much at putting them back together," he said darkly.

A car horn blared, startlingly, behind them, and Bruce looked sharply to Tony. There was a fierce fondness in his eyes, shocking and sharp.

Tony’s focus jumped back to the road, and the air whipped through something like relief.

"I built this car," he said. "And when I say that I don’t mean I dumped the engine in the body." Bruce knew that. Tony had been building robots in grade school, and back then that meant something. "I built it from scratch. The body is made from an alloy with five times the tensile strength of steel. Patent pending. I was nineteen.

"I _am_ an engineer. When I build something, a part of me goes into it. That includes Stark Industries," he said with a pointed look to Bruce. He pulled into the garage beneath the tower, the door opening whip-fast, and closing right behind them.

The air around them filled with expectation, like the conversation wasn’t yet over, like Tony was actually considering his words. Bruce only opened his door after Tony, letting the feeling pour out into the larger space. The garage of Stark Tower was more like a shop, partially constructed devices, blueprints, half-dismantled displays littering the air. Bruce wondered if that was how Tony lived, so that every room, the very space that he occupied, was full of potential, was a space he could use.

It wasn’t until the car doors shut, the noise echoing dully, that Tony spoke again. "Y’know, I’ve replaced the engine on this baby five times?" He paused long enough for Bruce to shake his head. "Five times, rebuilt from the ground up. But the frame’s the same from its first mile," he said fondly.

"I know this is hard for you to see, but Stark Industries has a new engine. It’s— _I’m_ not the same as I was before Afghanistan."

Tony’s skin had paled slightly, but there was a sharp lucidity in his eyes that drew Bruce in. Bruce said nothing. Tony needed to talk; he needed to listen.

"You don’t escape something like that unchanged. And Stark Industries has just as much of myself in it as this car." He patted the hood, too gentle to be a knock.

Tony took a deep breath.

"When you look at the company, you see the same old body, and you assume nothing has changed inside." His eyes flickered on Bruce’s face for a beat, too quick to read. "But she’s running on something new."

As he walked away, he remarked, "Something to think about."


	5. Feature, Not a Bug

Bruce did think about it. He thought about Afghanistan. Bruce had seen death throughout the course of his work, and he knew the ways that left its marks. He tried to imagine the kind of scars that littered Tony—more than the physical scars the V of his shirt hinted at; he thought about the haunted hollowness that flashed behind Tony’s eyes like lightning.

Bruce wondered what the marks beneath Tony’s skin looked like.

As distractions went, Bruce frequently turned to numbers, the sheer scale of his work, data and analyses and results results results. He would have been a fool if he hadn’t considered the labs at Stark Tower, the facilities so far ahead of the kind of equipment he worked with even before Cambodia. He began sketching the math across what might have been hotel-grade stationery in a past life, losing time to the flow of equations until he reached for what he discovered was the tabletop, the scant sheets of paper covered in ink.

"Dr. Banner," came a smooth, low voice, "allow me to apologize for not revealing my presence sooner. I am JARVIS. I am Mr. Stark’s…I am at your service," the voice settled on. "I have been asked to remind you that you have 24-hour access to the Stark Tower laboratory facilities."

"Right," Bruce said, slightly startled. "Were you, uh, monitoring me?" He wasn’t sure he’d have put it past Tony, once, but after their day out, he had to admit it would surprise him.

"Though I am programmed to allow for surveillance, your privacy is under priority and despite what Sir may imply, I have no interest in discovering the manner of your undergarments."

"Uh. Right—hang on, programmed? You’re an AI?" Bruce had encountered various limited artificial intelligences, but none that could be so mistaken for human. None that had a sense of self, a personality.

"As Miss Potts likes to say, I run the house." If Bruce didn’t know better, he’d say JARVIS sounded proud.

Bruce could already feel his second wind fluttering at his heels. He gathered up his notes and was out his door in seconds. "JARVIS, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Not at all," JARVIS said, following him into the hallway. "The second right will take you to the elevator, Dr. Banner."

Bruce wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or unnerved by his intelligence, his ability to observe and predict. But he figured, given Stark’s personality, that he must be a good lab partner—with the patience of a saint.

* * *

JARVIS nudged Bruce to bed before dawn, like a mother hen, and roused him far earlier than he might have preferred. Bruce had forgotten the pull of the work, how the exhaustion after a mental exercise was just as rewarding as that which he felt after treating a village, or flattening the heads of nails against the boards of schoolhouses.

Lab lag was a lot like jet lag, the consequence of too much light and not enough sleep, and Bruce was suffering from both.

"Miss Lewis is en route to your quarters, Dr. Banner. I would advise you put on your pants."

"Miss Lewis?"

A sharp, rhythmic knock followed like an answer. "Dr. Banner?" Ah, he thought. Darcy. "Bruce? Your suit has been delivered."

Bruce didn’t feel up to the effort of pants, but he pulled the bathrobe from its hook on the back of the bathroom door. He was still fixing the tie when he opened the door.

"Whoa," Darcy growled. She wasn’t usually intimidating, Bruce had to admit, and the garment bag didn’t exactly add to her ferocity, but the look in her eyes made him reach for the panels of the robe, pulling it tighter over his chest. "Not for nothing, Doc," she said, "but if I were Tony Stark, I’d bring you out looking just like that."

Bruce could feel the hot tips of his ears. He’d spent years lab-soft, any recent slimness the result of his poor reaction to Cambodia, leaving him bedridden for the better part of a month. For any muscle definition, he could thank the weight of a hammer. He was soft, he was hairy, and he was graying. Whatever Darcy saw, he wasn’t seeing.

"For a number of reasons, the world is grateful that you are not Tony Stark." He cleared his throat. "All the same, I’ll…take the suit."

"Your loss—or Mr. Stark’s," she added under her breath. "Be downstairs by two o’clock."

* * *

Tony was chronically late. It was just another bullet-point on his list of character defects, sandwiched between "disrespectful" and "unpredictable." Bruce was already waiting by Darcy’s office, hands in his pockets, folded in on himself.

He looked unbelievable. The bow tie was gone, leaving a small V of his throat exposed, tanned skin contrasting the rich purple of his shirt—silk with small silver buttons that matched the solid light gray of his suit.

"What did I say?" Tony bellowed, his voice jovial, but pitched almost revealingly low. "George does a hell of a job."

"A little tight in the back," Bruce admitted.

"Feature, not a bug," Tony insisted after a quick inspection.

Bruce was frowning—why was he frowning? Tony looked helplessly at Darcy, who rolled her eyes with some secret smirk.

"C’mon, you look great, limo’s waiting."

* * *

The curious thing about universal truths, Tony had learned, was that they were rarely universal, and even then, never strictly truths. He tended to take everything with a grain of salt.

He was willing, however, to attach that term to any number of observations: board meetings were boring, explosions were only cool if you were far enough away, someone with a camera phone will upload it to the internet, and people with anxieties find each other.

He saw it in Bruce, in the way his hands never stilled, in the way that getting him to make eye contact was like panning for gold. The limo brought it out in Bruce, or maybe it was the suit. Or—well, Tony refused to entertain the idea that it was the company.

Tony tried to focus on Bruce because if he didn’t, he might realize how nervous _he_ was. How he couldn’t sit still, the leftover adrenaline from his last panic attack picking at his peripheral nerves, how the soft hum of the engine sounded like a dull roar closing over his head, how nothing felt right without a drink in his hand.

These things, he thought to himself, were why limos have minibars.

He offered a tumbler to Bruce, who shook his head tightly, a wary expression on his face. Tony felt another ping, and narrowed his eyes in scrutiny.

"Hey, don’t stress," he said, his tongue almost weighed down with the weight of irony. "Just leave all the talking to me. Tonight your job is to have a good time, keep up with me, and look hot. Which won’t be a problem, in case you’re wondering. If I weren’t here, I’d say you’re an ad for how sexy science can be."

That was another thing; he couldn’t stop running his mouth.

Something Tony didn’t quite understand passed over Bruce’s expression like a shadow. He pulled it into a smile that looked nowhere near natural. Something about its disfigured form settled like lead in Tony’s chest.

He kicked back another scotch.

* * *

It wasn’t Bruce’s first experience with crowds—far from it—but every time, it was something new. It was like he reset, and everyone else, everyone on the other side of the flashbulbs and microphones became the enemy.

Maybe for Tony, this was a walk in the park, but Bruce didn’t have his experience and his positive reinforcement to go along with these kinds of things. In his experience, they usually ended with someone being arrested—or worse.

Bruce had never done this before, not from this angle. The cameras, the screaming fans, plastering on the fakest smile he could conjure up and pretending—it was all foreign and it left a bad taste in his mouth.

It all seemed to roll off of Tony. It was how he’d grown up: in the public eye, for better or for worse, his achievements and capabilities lauded, his failings and vices criticized. Bruce wondered if the spectacle of Tony Stark—the sex scandals, the booze, even the curveball of Stark Industries—was all a part of a pathological need for pageantry.

The car came to a stop, and Bruce swallowed his nerves down in a glass of tonic water. He watched as Tony knocked back a double of scotch and wished he didn’t crave a drink, himself, to get through this. He could hear the rattle of camera shutters already, and he couldn’t help the silent plea he sent Tony’s way.

"Just follow my lead," Tony said, but there was something shaky about it, less confident, his stretched smile not nearly as reassuring as it was intended.

The flashbulbs were blinding, the audience a roar beyond the ringing of his own ears, and Bruce was suddenly trembling. He couldn’t tell if he’d managed to warp his grimace into a smile. He forced himself to breathe through it, to keep an even keel, to trust Tony.

A hand reached for his, and he would have pulled back, except it was Tony’s, hot and rough with callouses and shiny burn marks, lab-carved. Bruce’s focus lasered in, like Tony was the only other person that mattered.

Distantly, he heard him greet the crowd, his voice plastic and tight. He felt the tug and shift against his body as Tony posed them both for pictures, not once dropping his hand, fingers wrapped tight between Bruce’s. And Bruce held on right back, desperate for the odd serenity the contact granted.

Bruce shook hands and expressed his platitudinal gratitude for kind words, but he let Tony do the talking, and never once thought to pull away from his touch.

Just as it had started, it stopped, two steps through the door into the theater. The lobby was spectacularly less crowded by comparison; it felt like even the air had expanded.

And then Tony’s hand was gone, slipping from Bruce’s to clap his shoulder. It wasn’t the same.

"See?" he said, "Hard part’s over already."

It was, too. Everyone noticed Tony, flocked to him like he was made of reporter-catnip. Bruce wondered if any of them saw the strain in the corner of his eyes, the way they widened just a hair too much, the way it took him a second longer each time to form his response. Bruce noticed him, reached around his shoulders and tugged him away, toward the door, and he imagined he could feel his shoulders relax.

No one noticed Bruce the way they noticed Tony.

But Bruce couldn’t stop fidgeting, still on edge when he knew, intellectually, that he should be crashing. He fidgeted with his sleeves, with his Stark Phone, with the glasses that belonged safely in his pocket. He wasn’t sure if Tony caught him at it, but when the lights dimmed, Tony’s knee knocked into his own, a presence that gave him more comfort than logic demanded.

He paid attention enough to form an opinion—the cinematography was incredible, the acting was decent, considering the material, and Bruce disagreed on the casting, but he would admit he had been out of touch. Just in case, he told himself, in case he was asked.

As it turned out, exactly no one asked him anything, let alone his opinion on the movie. No one cared about the nobody attached to Tony Stark.

Tony answered a dull number of repetitious questions before they both collapsed into the back of the limo.

Bruce said nothing, let himself feel the futility of his role here, watching Tony carry on a conversation with himself, decompressing, Bruce observed coldly. He might as well have not been there at all.

* * *

Tony knew something wasn’t right. He could tell Bruce was knotted up inside, shoulders tense, lips a tight line parallel to his jaw.

They made it as far as the Tower lobby before he spun on Bruce, demanding in short, clipped words, "Spill. What’s wrong?"

Bruce swung around, and for a wild second, looking into the intensity of his eyes, Tony thought he was going to strike out at him. He was pretty sure he’d remember doing something worthy of that. "What’s wrong," Bruce parroted, "is that I don’t know what the hell I’m even doing here! You give me access to the tower, and then what? You dress me up and take me out? Is that how this goes? Quid pro quo and I get to be your arm candy?"

Everything comforting about the last few hours felt suddenly cold and flat. The grateful squeeze of Bruce’s hand in his suddenly clinging for meaning, the smile halfway through the movie a figment of Tony’s imagination. "How about the opportunity to work here? To work with me?"

"You _would_ see that as the main attraction."

Tony sighed, exasperated. "Okay, how about the money? The chance to develop—I don’t know, _something_ for your kids in India!"

"Cambodia," Bruce corrected, and even that had fire on its tail.

"What’s this about, really?" Tony staggered. "I showed you the time of—what, you want to go back to the backseat?"

Bruce stepped back like he’d been slapped, and Tony immediately regretted the words. "I guess I just didn’t realize I was _whoring_ myself out for the cause," Bruce said, stung.

He turned on his heel, intent on the elevator. All Tony knew was that he had to stop him, had to apologize. His grip was like iron around Bruce’s wrist. When he turned back, there was a dark, dangerous flash of something in his eyes, sharp and new, and Tony didn’t like it at all. "Bruce," he started, breathless and broken, "I didn’t—I’d never, I hope you—"

"Not what I meant, Stark," he replied, and Tony dropped his wrist at the formality of his tone. "I came here to do some good, not be flashed around like a bauble."

After that, Tony didn’t stop Bruce from walking away.


End file.
